Date: Wed, 18 Oct 1995 22:44:09 -0700 Reply-To: Greg Palmer Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Greg Palmer Subject: REPOST: "Three of Hearts" Part 3 [2/2] He could see almost nothing; the water was sheeting over the vessel. Waves battered the side of the ship, sending more white water over the deck; he was instantly drenched by it. Gabriel pulled himself over the cusp of the hatch and managed to get to his feet. The masts at the fore and aft were already bare of sails. He saw a few crewmen and officers struggling with tangled ropes, trying to bring the sails of the center mast in. He even saw the captain with them, helping to bring the sails under control before the mast cracked. The lines were hopelessly knotted and intertwined. "No!" Gabriel shouted urgently, over the roar of the storm. He remembered a time when his father's small fishing boat had been in a storm much like this, and the insane, desperate trick his father used to bring the sails in quickly. If he could just reach the mast... He staggered through the driving rain and spray from the waves, against the powerful rocking of the deck. He finally made it over to the sailors and grabbed a rusty knife from one of their belts. He gripped the slick wood of the mast and began to climb, the pegs in the mast providing treacherous support to his hands and stockinged toes. He transferred the dagger to his teeth; the flying drops of rain stung his face and arms. Twice, he almost lost his handhold and narrowly avoided falling to his death. At each near fatal mistake, new surges of energy flooded his body, giving him the strength to continue. His heart hammered urgently in his chest and in his ears. At last, he made it to the top of the mast, directly beneath the crow's nest and flapping, cracking flag above it. He quickly located the crucial line and began to saw away at it with the dull knife. The rain stung his eyes and made the knife handle slick, and the gale threatened to tear him from his precarious handholds. Finally, it was severed, and the heavy, drenched sails whipped away from the mast, billowing to the deck. Gabriel clung to the slippery wood, cursing his impulsiveness. He had just realized he could not climb down. Electric fear crackled in his nerves. He held on for ten minutes, the mast seeming to buck like a ornery horse. He could hear the tinny voices of men calling up to him; but he could not make out words-- his tired muscles inevitably gave way and he fell, plummeting from his perch high above the deck. The sound of his own screaming in his ears was cut off abruptly when his body slammed to the deck, making an unimpressively hollow thud. *********** Buried in corpses! That was his first thought as his eyes popped open again. He frantically clawed at the bloody body on top of him and it rolled to the side. He leapt to his feet and saw that he was not buried as he thought; only the one corpse was upon him. A few other bodies were strewn and forgotten along the side of the deck. The storm had passed, and the sky was blue. The ship rocked only slightly. He saw broken pieces of wood littering the deck; the ship was in a state of disarray. Officers called out orders to the crewmen who were busily repairing and cleaning up the vessel. The sails were furled again. Gabriel noticed a wide-eyed sailor staring at him. The stunned sailor made the sign of the Cross and fainted dead away, the look of shock still on his face. Other men began to gather in a semicircle around Gabriel and the unconscious crewman. They all stared at Gabriel, most with slack jaws. He could not understand what he'd done, until he realized he'd fallen from the mast and been smashed on the deck! The faces of the staring men blurred in his vision and he put a hand on the railing to steady himself. Another man shouldered his way through the crowd, and Gabriel saw it was the captain. "Back to work--," he said, starting to curse his men, but his jaw clicked shut when he saw Gabriel standing in front of him. Gabriel looked from the captain to the crewmen, and noticed a startling difference between them. The captain's lined face showed an understanding that was unmistakable! The captain continued to squint at Gabriel for a moment, eyes narrow and calculating. He turned back to his men and barked, "Who put this man with the dead?" A scared looking sailor muttered, "`Twas me, Captain." He pointed at Gabriel. "But this man was-- dead! Dead as a stone!" he stammered. "Well, you made a mistake, Boggs, *didn't you*?" He raised his voice. "I believe I gave you scurvy dogs an order!" The men disobeyed him, and kept staring at the man who they knew should have been dead. "GETBACKTOWORKYOUSONSOFWHORES!" the captain bellowed. The men still didn't move for a moment, and then headed back to their tasks, some muttering about the Devil and sorcery. The captain fixed his gray eyes on Gabriel. "Get back below decks, and we'll have no more words about this," he said, not unkindly, but not amiably. Gabriel did as ordered, mind still spinning from his impossible recovery, and at that first open expression of *understanding* on the old captain's face. He quickly located McGee and slumped down at their customary spot in the hold. "O'Shea!" McGee exclaimed, looking at his friend in concern. "I'd feared you'd been lost!" Gabriel didn't reply, still thinking about the captain's expression. That man *knew* something. McGee punched Gabriel in the shoulder. "Lad! You all right? What happened up there?" "I was knocked out by a falling piece of wood," he lied. "Just came to a moment ago," he finished lamely. He made a show of rubbing his head, which felt all too painfully clear. Then he noticed some of the Irish sailors who had been on deck during the storm, whispering to others and pointing in his direction. The two regulars posted as guards also stared at him. McGee nodded. "You'll be happy to know they shored up the leak in the hull, down below." He laughed. "There's still six inches of water down there, though." The old man's words didn't register on Gabriel. He wondered how he was going to get answers out of the captain. He was sure the captain knew what was going on with him. But how to reach the man? And would he even cooperate? McGee sighed and leaned back against the rounded hull when he saw Gabriel was not interested in talking to him. *********** Gabriel played game after game of clock solitaire with McGee's cards, until the cloudless blue sky outside the cannon ports turned black. He stared at McGee; the old man was curled up, snoring away. The two guards and most of the men in the hold were also asleep. He crept for the ladder, making no sound; he still had no shoes. The few other Irishmen who were not asleep watched him with interest but raised no alarm. He climbed the ladder, gently lifted the hatch and stuck his head over the edge. No one would see him. He pulled himself up onto the deck and quickly located the captain's cabin, directly behind him. He padded over to the door and slowly pushed it open, stepping softly into the light coming from the cabin. The captain was seated at his desk, his back to Gabriel. The gray-haired man was poring over old, leather-bound volumes with yellowed pages: the books covered every square inch of his desk. A few loose papers bearing sketches of men's faces rested on top a few of the books. The captain looked back and forth at two of the tattered tomes, studying them furiously, intently. He suddenly realized he was not alone, and spun around in his old chair. Gabriel saw recognition in the man's face instantly, and he could have sworn there was *fear* there, as well. Gabriel realized this was a man who didn't fear many things. Gabriel let the door shut behind him. "What do you know about me?" he asked simply. The captain shut his book and responded instantly, calmly. "I know nothing about you, nor do I wish to. Leave, before I have you flogged for leaving the lower decks." "I *know* you have answers, sir!" Gabriel pleaded, taking a step towards the captain. "You know no man could survive a fall like that! Please! *Why* do I keep coming back from the dead?!" he asked desperately. The captain squinted at Gabriel again, the same way he had looked at him before. He opened his mouth and Gabriel saw a realization cross his face. Gabriel watched as the expression of fear dissolved and was replaced by... pity! The gray eyes in his creased and weathered face darkened, and Gabriel sensed a tremendous internal struggle going on inside the man. Finally, he seemed to come to a decision, and spoke. "You really have no idea *what you are*, do you?" he whispered in amazement. Then, the captain closed his mouth with a snap; he seemed to disapprove of his own emotions. "Then what am I?" Gabriel hissed in agitation. "You are one of the handful of people known as the Immortals," the captain said bluntly. "You will never grow old. Nothing can kill you, except decapitation." He sighed wearily and rubbed his temples. "There it is, make of it what you will." "That's all there is?" Gabriel asked, frustrated, but believing every word. "And I just happen to be one of these-- Immortals?" "Of course that's not *it*," the captain snapped. "But I've interfered enough. Seek out others of your kind, you'll know when one is near. But beware, most will only be interested in parting your head from your neck. You'd best get a sword and learn how to use it." He gestured at the door. "I don't envy you, O'Shea. Leave now." Gabriel didn't move. "*Why* am I... what I am?" Gabriel choked on the words. His mind spun with the new revelations. "Who is to say? The same to ask a mortal `why he is what he is'. Some believe in God the Creator, some believe that it's all just a twist of fate. *I* am not one to guess `why you are... what you are'. In time, perhaps you will come to your own... conclusions." Dawson stared at the flat wooden floor of his small cabin. Gabriel desperately needed answers. The urge to shake the man, make him talk, was almost overpowering. Gabriel was sure Dawson knew much more. "Who are *you*, to know so much about this?" "My *name* is Frederick Dawson, and for now, I am the captain of the H.M.S. Vigilant. But that, perhaps, is not the answer you seek." His face was grim and strained, as if he was perilously close to crossing a line, that he must never cross. "My true mission is to watch any of the Immortals I come across." "There are others like you, who watch?" "No." He was lying. Gabriel urgently wanted to ask Dawson another question, but he could not decide if he should ask. He finally managed to speak the words, as he turned for the door and put his hand on it. "What do you know about-- vampires, Captain?" Dawson merely smiled and shook his head. He didn't seem to want to know why Gabriel had asked him such a strange question. "They *do* exist, and not just in legends, O'Shea. They must drink human blood to live, and cannot walk in sunlight. They are very pale beings, extremely strong. Some can read a man's thoughts. They're dangerous, but there are even fewer of them than there are Immortals. Other than that, I can't say; I've never seen one." More lies again, or at least half- truths. He was holding back much more information than he was revealing. Gabriel pushed the door open and walked out onto the deck. He heard the captain's rough voice call out to him. "May our paths never cross, O'Shea." "Amen to that," Gabriel whispered as he crept across the deck and back down the ladder. He flopped to the hard deck and slept. ************* The days became weeks and stretched into months. Gabriel felt almost exhilarated to find out he would live forever, but the captain's cryptic words about others like him wanting to *behead* him darkened his outlook on the future. Also, being immortal did not prevent him from being hungry, he thought ruefully. The cut-back rations he received did little to plug the churning hole in his gut. Water, too, was scarce. The few tin cups of water he drank each day were not enough to keep him from being desperately thirsty all the time. There was much thievery of water and rations; those who were weak, became weaker, and died of starvation. All the conscripts except McGee seemed to be frightened of Gabriel, and would not even talk to him, much less steal from him. He should have been glad, but the lack of company other than the chattering old man was beginning to get to him. One night, a crewman awakened Gabriel and informed him that Captain Dawson wished to see him. Gabriel thought to refuse, but in the end his curiosity got the better of him. The sailor led Gabriel up to the captain's cabin. The first thing Gabriel noticed about Dawson was that the man was also on short rations. He'd lost weight since their last meeting. Dawson dismissed the crewman and eyed Gabriel from his chair. "We'll be docking in Boston shortly," he said. Gabriel remembered what the whole point of the long journey really was. The frustration and anger boiled up and burst out of him. "How can you hand us-- them over to the army, where they'll be slaughtered!" Gabriel shouted. "Many of them did nothing to deserve this fate!" "How easily you distance yourself from them," Dawson remarked. "If all you came up here for was to curse me, then I'll be happy to send you along with them, O'Shea." "What do--" "You'll be going to Boston a free man." Dawson gestured to a small table; a purse of coins, new clothes and boots, and a British officer's saber rested there. "Put on these clothes and take the money and sword; wrap the sword in a blanket. When we dock in Boston, you'll leave the boat with me. Then you'll lose yourself in the city; and I won't see you again." Gabriel was stunned, the last thing he expected at this meeting was for the captain to be helping him. After a moment, he nodded. "Thank you, Captain. About my friend, McGee--" "He stays." Gabriel started to object but the captain cut him off with a slicing motion of his hand. Gabriel knew it was useless to protest any further; the captain was obviously accustomed to getting his way. Dawson made a gesture at the items on the table; Gabriel hurriedly changed and wrapped the sword in one of the captain's dark green blankets, as ordered. "We'll dock in a half hour. Wait on the deck for me," Dawson said, and turned away to his old books. True to his word, the captain led Gabriel off the boat and soon after they got off the boat, sent Gabriel off into the dark city. As soon as Gabriel began walking, Dawson turned his back on him and returned to the boat. Boston was a giant city, and Gabriel was intimidated by it. His nose soon enough led him to the smell of cooking meat from a small tavern nearby. He was starving. He bought a sandwich of hot roast beef and coarse bread, after the tavern wench demanded to see the color of his coin; Gabriel was surprised to find silver in the purse Dawson had given him. He bit into the rich beef, and his body began to cry out for the fresh food. He wolfed the sandwich greedily and ordered another, this time with a mug of ale, which he washed down the second sandwich with. He was just swallowing the last bite when he suddenly felt a sharp tingle run down the back of his neck. The feeling gradually intensified and he suddenly felt nauseous. Then, he heard a loud crash of the door flying open, and everyone in the tavern turned around to stare. The proprietor of the tavern, a fat, red-faced old man, rushed from the back and confronted the dozen British soldiers who filed into the place. Gabriel could not believe his eyes; the leader was a raven- haired *woman*, dressed as a captain in the British army! "My men and I are hungry," she said to the tavernkeeper, coolly. "Bring us food." The man scoffed. "There are no *women* in His Majesty's Army! Get out--" She backhanded him across the face, sending the man sprawling to the floor. She turned to stare at a serving girl, and the frightened young woman went scuttling for the back of the tavern. The place was still silent, and everyone stared at the soldiers, some with open disdain on their faces. Business concluded, the woman ignored the stares and began to scan the room for the source of the Quickening she felt. She quickly oriented on Gabriel, and slowly walked over to him, leaving her company behind. The silence in the tavern slowly disappeared; the customers were too drunk to stay quiet for long. Despite himself, Gabriel was very frightened; the food he'd eaten suddenly sat heavily in his stomach. There was no doubt the woman was the cause of the peculiar sensations he felt; it increased as she drew closer. He stared at his empty plate, remembering Dawson's words about how he would sense others of his own kind. Suddenly, her cool hand touched his jaw and she gently turned his head towards her. Her icy blue eyes stared into his and she said, "I am Rebecca MacLeod of the Clanmacleod." She paused for a moment, as if trying to recall a memory. "I don't know you," she said, finally. "Have you come for me?" [End part 3] --Greg Palmer (gpalmer@xroads.com) [Secondary address]: 51035@ef.pvc.maricopa.edu [World Wide Web]: http://www.xroads.com/pages/gpalmer/gpalmer.html =========================================================================